


Threadbare

by Nichomen



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichomen/pseuds/Nichomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His audience of fifteen half conscious men and one disgruntled vigilante turned (or moaned) their attention towards him. If this was the day Jason finally decided to kill him well…honestly he’d understand. He really would. </p>
<p>“What’s so funny, Red Robin.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threadbare

**Author's Note:**

> So this actually started off as a joke and my attempt to write something funny/fluffy/cute but I failed miserably and it got semi serious and there should be more than one part probably…

Tim tried to ignore it, the way Jason’s movements were stiff, controlled, lacking in any swagger as Jason talked to the masked men locked and loaded at his head; or rather his helmet.

Something just wasn’t right.

Jason would move to gesture to his haughty talk, then stop, muttering under his breath almost inaudibly, before flying his hands back to his holsters on the defense. Tim watched, half amused, half worried, but wholly curious, more so than he’d care to admit over someone who often times spent less than two-cents worth of concern on him. Whatever he was planning, Jason made no notion to some sort of mutually understood conspiracy between them both. It wasn’t a good sign if Jason was acting just as tense as the thugs surrounding them.

Jason jerked, motioning towards Tim in more stilted movements, shifting his whole body sideways to make visual contact—wait.

Wait. Jason would never make himself vulnerable like—

_Oh my god._ Tim’s face blanched before erupting into splotchy shades of pink.

_Jason was being restricted by his own coat._  The locked elbows, the short movements, his stony, uptight posture _. Jason was having trouble moving because his coat was too small for him._

In those two moments of realization, Tim was beaming—gunshots fired, and whatever happened next was a blur of swearing and the dull thud and smack of fists against faces, Tim jolting through the air, landing kicks and punches and his own stifled laughter leaking through when Jason came into his field of vision. He was keeping low to the ground, though even with his minimal movement the fight was moving along _swimmingly_ ; and maybe it would have gone even better hadn’t Tim let his guard down multiple times due to the laughter induced stomach-ache making it hard for him to stand up straight and practice flawless landings.

Oh, this was rich, and it was still rich while they zip-tied (or at least on Tim’s account, tried to zip tie,) the thugs and smash their artillery into useless bits. Jason took care into focusing all his power to his legs, grunting irritably when he was forced to bend over and—Tim laughed, loud and sudden.

His audience of fifteen half conscious men and one disgruntled vigilante turned (or moaned) their attention towards him. If this was the day Jason finally decided to kill him well…honestly he’d understand. He really would.

“What’s so funny, _Red Robin._ ”

Oh, there was venom in the way he said his name, no doubt about that. Tim’s face almost puffed out trying to silence another bout of giggles, watching Jason try to twist his body comfortably towards him before having to turn all the way around. Tim shook his head, lenses protecting tearful eyes that would have obviously betrayed him, hands put up defensively. Jason’s voice made a noise that could only be compared to a rumble before he stalked towards Tim, slamming his fist against the wall behind Tim’s back, letting out just the quietest squeak of leather that Tim almost didn’t catch.

Almost.

Needless to say he burst out into giggles—which was really the only way to describe them—right into the face of the man who was more and more likely going to become his official cause of death.

“I’m so sorry, J-Red Hood it’s just that…”

Jason struck again, louder, but failed to put the fear of whatever God he was into Tim, who instead looked to be on the verge of _wheezing_.

When he finally spoke, he could barely manage a whisper.

“Is your jacket… getting too small?”

Tim really didn’t know what he expected other than a fist to the gut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m pretty sure punching you wasn’t my way of inviting you to follow me, Timbo.”

Said Timbo was perched atop the skylight of Jason’s safehouse, all other windows boarded save for a few select panels that would let the light leak through had it been daylight. Instead, Tim took the lack of gunshots fired within the first few seconds to be invitation enough, slipping down almost soundlessly had it not been for the shifting of his own cape.

“I’m serious about what I said back there Jason—it was sad how obvious it was.”

Jason’s coat was still stretched across his back as he shuffled through his gun locker, shutting it before shooting across the room towards the kitchen, straight to the fridge. He offered Tim nothing as he rifled through its contents.

“Since when is that any of your business?”

“Uh, since it obviously affected your performance in the field.”

“Hm. I’m alive, aren’t I.”

Jason settled on a bottle of water, taking care to unscrew the cap and, with a sudden jerk, brought it to his mouth to empty its contents.

Or well, he would have if the sudden jerky movement hadn’t strained his jacket into pulling his arm back down, splattering water onto his face. Stitches popped, and not just the ones in Tim’s side.

“Fuck.”

Tim snorted.

“I swear to Christ, Tim if you…”

Tim looked down at the interesting fibers of the carpet, the most pitiful smirk plastered onto his face.

Jason groaned, tossing the bottle onto the bed and his own body soon after.

“I just washed it. It’ll loosen up.”

“ You don’t wash that jacket like that. Besides, it’s just going to get worse.”

“I’m a grown ass man, it’s not going to get any worse.”

“It’s your muscle mass Jason, just get a new jacket.”

“No, this is _my_ jacket.”

This conversation was becoming less and less amusing to Tim, and more like talking to, well, Jason.

“Jason, the next jacket is going to be your jacket too.”

“No you don’t—why the fuck are you still even in here?” The self proclaimed grown ass man found the strength to flip himself over, glaring at Tim still standing mid-room, smirk settled into a stern expression. Tim shifted, pulling his cowl, settling, eyes darting across the minimal fixtures of the room. Jason waited.

“So this isn’t a rhetorical question?”

“Look, just because I haven’t decided to beat you to a pulp the last few times you happened to ‘drop in’ on my patrol doesn’t make us friends.”

Tim’s face lost any sort of (annoying, Jason would add) merriment to his features, settling into seriousness. Only Tim could make a serious face that seemed so… comfortable. Natural.

“Understandable.  Why won’t you get a new jacket?”

“You haven’t even answered my question yet, _punk.”_

Tim shrugged (annoyingly,) eyes flickering to the gun locker, then the fridge, before landing on the bed again. “I’m just going to pretend it was a rhetorical question. Besides, I asked first, and you never answered.”

Jason grunted, waving him off, face buried back into his threadbare pillow. Hopefully it would drown out the sounds of Tim’s voice, of his inaudible shifting.

“I told you, because it’s mine. Now you can show yourself out, or the much less dignified option, I _throw_ you out.”

Emphasis on the throw completely implied. Jason will admit to smiling at Tim’s frustrated noise seeping through his pillow barrier. The next sounds Jason heard where a happy sequence of rustling and Tim shooting a line toward the skylight, in true vigilante fashion as opposed to, you know, using the _door._

“You’re going to kill me one way or another, Jason.”

And oh, didn’t he know it.

 

 

  


 

The snow was insistently piling up in Gotham, much to Jason’s dismay. Patrol was a real dick for more than just the cold; it was more like the cold and everything that came with it: the noise that came with keeping warm, the eternal slip n’ slide of frozen pavement, the _crunch crunch_ of godamn _snow_. Everything about it screamed “look at me I’m right here, a blaze of glory against sheets and sheets of _white.”_ The snow just did not do it for Jason Todd, or more accurately, the Red Hood.

And then of course _squeak._ There was the non-issue of _squeak._ His _squeak._ Perfectly fitted jacket.

_Squeak._

“What was that noise?”

Three men armed with nothing but their fists and a belly of whiskey turned towards the interrupted silence, shuffling along the cargo-crowded docks. Swearing under his breath, Jason figured he may as well make this an intentional blow of his cover.

“That noise was the sound of my bullets in your kneecaps if you don’t give me what I want.”

The men turned again, face forward, eyes stricken in horror at the sight of the Red Hood, gleaming as he revealed himself from the shadows.

The biggest of the three stepped forwards, cautiously, hiding his own nerves with the bulk of his chest and the girth of his size. He still stayed out of arms reach, however, while his companions inched backwards.

“What, and you really think just one of you—“

“Wrong answer,” his grip against the man’s throat was fierce, his voice, playful. This was actually much more fun than hiding in the shadows—the man’s fists, meaty and clumsy, flailed towards Jason just seconds before he was slammed into the ground, Jason’s lesser but concentrated weight pinning him down beneath his boots.  By then the other two men, less bold, had scattered back into the safety of wherever Red Hood was not; the streets, maybe, or to hail more men. Either option was just fine, because he’d be gone in half the time.

“So while your friends tell the other’s where the party’s at, why don’t we gossip about old Cobblepot a bit, _chum.”_

He knelt down; foot on one arm knee on the other, scooping up the man’s no doubt bruising face in his hands, squishing his cheeks in. The man could only speak through his teeth.

“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’, freak.”

“Wow we’re just full of wrong answers today; I take it you’re not the boss’s favorite either?”

The man squealed, rocking back and forth beneath Jason, straining to get leverage on the dauntingly smaller body on top. This time a fist and cold metal impacted his face, loosening a tooth or two from his jaw, making his fists curl against the ground.

“So again, Cobblepot. Or maybe you’re an informant for Black Mask? Hiding amongst the penguins? Ooh, I don’t think Oswald would like. That. Very. Much.”

Each word was accompanied by a tap of the muzzle against a square, red nose, so damningly playful, making him sweat. Jason grinned from beneath the helmet. Sometimes he wished these suckers could see him grin, all fangs and sharp eyes that would always know more about _them_ than they could ever know about _him_.   

“Fine, okay, uncle. But you gotta let me go, yeah? I scratch your back, yadda yadda? And don’t go tellin’ old man Penguin…”

“Yadda yadda indeed. Now hush, tell Big Red what he wants to hear.”

Jason could practically feel the guy’s snarl.

“Listen buddy, Penguin…”

“There he is!”

Of course it would be macho option two.  Jason could hear at least five additional footsteps—only five, what a joke—stomping through the snow, weaving through the crates back towards them.  It only took Jason half a second to move, arm shooting to his holster for his second piece, twisting his body when—what was that noise.

It was…

It was a rip.

Jason swiveled, twisting the skin of the guy beneath him, ignoring the pained yowels.

That rip wasn’t just any rip.

It was his jacket.

As the backup filtered in, a mixture of John Does and Plain Janes with a bone to pick, Jason’s mind was reeling while his body was on auto fire, one, two, four down with bullets to their knees and shoulders before his mind could reel backwards to the odd but empty sense of freedom in his movement.  

_Because his jacket ripped._

Then there was fucking laughter, from his victim pinned beneath him, fisting the hole the tear had created behind him, tossing Jason like a _doll._

“What a joke, _Big Red,_ can’t even dress himself properly—“ Jason fired, followed by a sputter, hitting just inside the thigh, aiming for a second more finite shot right in the—

Nothing apparently, when Tim—Red Robin—landed square on the guy’s back like a little red missile, knocking him down for the second time that night.

“Red Hood, stand down—“

“Yeah okay, when do I ever,” Jason shot up, making a running kick to one of the three thugs still attempting to save themselves, “listen to you?”

“Apparently not when I tell you to get a new jacket,” Tim knocked the gigantic man beneath him in the head once more, halting his labored movements completely before making a fluid movement to knock another foe, adjacent to Jason, away.

“Why the hell are you even here? I can deal,” a knock to some teeth, “myself.”

It was sad looking at the so-few bodies sprawled beneath them, really, as Tim began to collect them properly, bound in two groups of four. The biggest one would, again, be up soon for questioning.

“Well, Red Hood, if you’d just accept a shared frequency we could avoid these coincidences.”

“Coincidence my ass, you’re following me.”

The bite came out more as a whimper when Jason shrugged his jacket off, inspecting the tear—and it was definitely a big one. That guy shoving his hands through it definitely didn’t help; he’d make sure he’d take special honor in knocking him out a second time.

 “What the hell am I gonna do…”

“Get a new jacket—“

“Hell no, I already told you,” the big man’s head perked up groggily, emitting a moan just as Tim slammed his palm to his face.

“Hood, if you’re not going to get rid of that jacket, I will gladly fix it for—“

“No! That’s even worse, I don’t need you to patch up my crap for me like you’re my—“

The man was coming to, slowly blinking, but obviously gaining sentience.

 “Hood, after this interrogation we need to…”

“ _We_ don’t need to anything. At all. _Nothing._ ”

Tim’s face showed no reaction. Jason crossed his arms, for the first time, comfortably in a while though… admittedly a bit chilly, unable to resist rubbing at his arms for warmth. Tim shook his head, one swift motion, before tapping the communicator in his cowl.

“Red Robin to O, yeah, Dixon Docks for pickup. A unit other than Gordon’s should be fine, if he’s busy, just some minor thugs. Yeah, thanks…”

He cleared his throat, eyeing Jason, with sympathy or exasperation he couldn’t tell, but either would have successfully irked Jason.

“You have five minutes till the police come to pick them up, so I suggest you interrogate them instead of being angry at me.”

“What the fuck…” his words were slurred, unprepared; it would have to be a careful, convincing, and fast interrogation. Jason hissed, boots kicking up frost as he trudged towards the man gaining consciousness.

“I’ll be waiting.”

By the time the sirens could be heard, both Red Hood and Robin were gone.

 

 

 

It was still dark when Jason came quietly crashing into his safehouse, flinching at the sound of creaking wooden floors, eyes half closed and body feeling numb; and the next crash would have been straight into his bed if there wasn’t already a figure sitting on it, clad in sweats and jacket, a box of… something in his lap. Jason groaned, jostling everything he had on his persons to lazily toss at the figure, who dodged every piece.

“You know, you have guns that you could use for shooting—though throwing them is kind of creative I guess.”

Jason groaned, heaving his body onto the pile of crap accumulated beside Tim, shoving the other boy to the floor in one swift motion. Instead of a satisfying _thump-groan-“what the hell asshole”_ Jason would have preferred to hear, Tim clutched the box to his chest and _cart wheeled_ away. Jesus Christ, no one should be that competent at whatever o’clock in the dark-as-hell morning.

“My life is depressing enough right now, asshole-bird.”

Tim just watched Jason slowly engulf the bed, fidgeting and turning until he was again flat on his back, still draped over his more than uncomfortable looking equipment.

“Asshole-Bird?”

“Yeah. Dick’s Dickie-Bird, You’re asshole Bird, and I’ve decided just now Damian is Scrotum-Bird. A whole wonderfully disgusting anatomy. Now if you would please direct yourself over there…” Jason’s voice trailed off as he pointed towards the… heater, in actuality, but Tim was pretty sure he meant the door.

“I’m not leaving.”

Silence, aside from the sudden rustling of Jason propping his body up and off the bed, filled the room.

“I could kill you right now.”

Tim shrugged, the cheeky bastard.

“But you haven’t.”

He reached forward, fingers barely touching the sleeve of Jason’s jacket draped over the chair tucked against the wall, before Jason launched himself at that smug little overconfident out of his mind—now on top of him kid. Tim faced away, sitting comfortably on Jason’s chest, struggling arms locked underneath Tim’s shins, who was humming to himself all while inspecting the damage and dimensions of Jason’s jacket. Jason rocked underneath him, irritation growing as Tim shifted and _matched_ his movements.

“What the hell are you doing, asshole.”

This time Tim stopped, lowering the Jacket to rest on his lap, reaching for the tossed aside box to open. Jason could only hear the metallic rustling—but he really didn’t need to see in order to know what was in it.

“Oh no, you are not… You are not _patching up_ my jacket.”

“If you insist on wearing this jacket, _only_ this jacket Jason, I’m going to make sure it fits _properly_.”

Jason twisted his wrists, flexed his fingers, shook his whole body in an effort to make this as difficult as humanely possible for Tim.

But his game was pretty obvious, and Tim didn’t seem like he minded the rules. There was a period of more silence, Jason too groggily aware of Tim’s quiet fidgeting as he moved from jacket to box to jacket again.

“So what exactly are you doing?”

“I’m letting it out Jason.”

“What, my jacket?”

Tim turned, eyebrow quirked; not exactly exasperated, but definitely a fleeting annoyance.

“What else would I let out, your dog?”

This time it was Jason’s turn to laugh, after so many weeks since their last meeting, a short one but still a laugh. The sudden burst was enough to catch Tim off guard, jolting off his chest in surprise for more than enough half-seconds for Jason to throw him off his body. With Tim against the floor he made a grab for the jacket, inspecting the beginning of Tim’s handiwork, frowning at the pitiful condition of his jacket. _His_ jacket.

“It’s ruined.”

“Jason, I just started…”

“Shutup, okay? I don’t think there’s enough to make it fit right.”

Tim straightened himself, cross-legged, watching with calculating eyes as Jason seemed to come to an understanding (Not with him, with his jacket, of course.)

“It was getting old, Jay, it’s not going to set you back getting a new one—it’s not like when—“

“That’s not the point,” Jason’s voice was a high, almost desperate snarl, but it mellowed soon after to one of quiet fury, mourning.

“It was the first one.”

“What?”

Jason’s voice had been low, not a whisper, but definitely not conversational. Clear to himself, a one sided, half aware conversation. Tim cocked his head, waiting for an answer, but only got a stubborn shake of the head.

“Nothing you would understand, replacement. You’ve lived off my hand-me-downs.”

With a sudden force the jacket met with Tim’s face, falling unceremoniously onto his lap as Jason picked himself up off the floor and fell gracelessly back onto his bed, atop his mountain of crap.

“Go ahead and take it, do whatever you want. I’ll get a new fuckin’ jacket, just leave me alone. If you’re still here when I roll over and scratch my ass, you’re dead.” Jason’s back was to him, seemingly gone limp, when Tim gathered his things in hand, jacket thrown over his shoulder as he left.

 

 

_It was the first one._

The sun was peeking over the skyline, wind itching against Tim’s exposed features, the box a heavy weight against his side. He could have guessed Jason had some sentimental attachment to the jacket, no doubt considered a part of his uniform…just how important Tim guessed, was what he failed to realize.

A sudden gust of wind picked up in the direction opposing him, whipping his hair against his face, coaxing him to curl into himself for warmth. Trudging forward, he caught the scent of Jason; leather, smoke, and moonlight, taking a second to realize that of course, it was the jacket, ragged and torn, hanging over his shoulder. Without any real reason against it, he slipped into it, one arm at a time.

Though it was too small for Jason, it hung over his smaller frame well, if not a bit too loose, regardless of the gaping hole in the back and tattered seams he’d started on. Despite it, the warmth enveloped him in a way sunlight simply couldn’t. Settling into it, he lifted the collar over his nose, sighing with relief for the new protection, a sudden flush coming over him.

Well, this was intimate.

Instead he let go, worming his hands into now empty pockets, finding comfort for his frozen fingers, and let his breath form in the still chilly atmosphere, infinitely warmer than before.

For some odd reason, wearing that jacket, Tim could understand how Jason had a problem letting go. 


End file.
